Beauty report: Skinny dipping

Ask me to drop my clothes in a puddle on the floor in
public? I'd rather eat wasps.

As a child, it's all about being naked. We romp about on the
beach wearing nothing but SPF50 and armbands; we're thrown in the
tub with siblings and friends and any other kids to hand. We march
around the house butt-naked, soggy-towel turbans on our small
heads. But times change. I remember a school matron telling me,
aged eight, that taking a bath with my friends wasn't appropriate.
Before long, you're squirming about getting dressed under a towel
after swimming lessons. You demand a lock on your door, avoid
communal changing rooms and blush madly at rogue boob sightings in
films. Even the slightest whiff of nudity becomes embarrassing
beyond belief.

I'm not always such a prude. Plonk me on a European beach and I'll
whip my top off faster than a buttered bullet (avoiding strap marks
is a serious business). I'll stand around in paper pants having a
spray tan and I'll contort myself into all manner of uncompromising
positions in Bikram wearing next to nothing (when it's that humid,
even shorts feel claustrophobic). But ask me to drop my clothes in
a puddle on the floor in public? I'd rather eat wasps. It's not the
case with everyone. Some people ADORE being naked. I know grown men
who love nothing more than stripping off and hurtling headfirst
into the nearest river. A friend comes from a family of real
nudists. They go to their house in Majorca for a week and spend the
entire time naked. They swim naked, cook lunch naked, carve the
roast chicken naked, eat supper naked, sunbathe naked, play cards
naked. Imagine! It must make packing a breeze. The only person
wearing clothes is the gardener, who spends an unusual amount of
time cleaning the pool when she and her sisters are outside.

I wanted to be that person. Not the gardener - but the person who
is free and easy with their nakedness. The first step in my
metamorphosis into fully fledged nudism? To speak to someone who
could shed some light on why we have become so self-conscious.
Susie Orbach, author of Fat Is a Feminist Issue and former
therapist of Diana, Princess of Wales, advised that I stop judging
my body on what it looks like from the outside, and learn to
appreciate it from the inside. The human form is a wonderful thing.
It breathes, moves, digests, grows, heals, reproduces - simple yet
miraculous things that most of us take for granted. Instead of
zoning in on my bottom and critically appraising my tummy every
time I look in a mirror, why not take a minute to think about the
mechanics - and just how clever the body is?

Fascinating stuff. I pushed my fear to the back of my head and,
firmly ignoring Orbach's advice, set to work prepping things for
imminent exposure. I embarked on a frenzy of pilates at Heartcore,
in a desperate attempt to make my thighs firmer. Waxing with Arezoo
Kaviani (the best woman to wield a spatula and a pot of hot wax)
was booked. I scoured every inch of skin with big handfuls of
Guerlain's grainy Terracotta scrub; I slathered myself in La
Prairie Luxe Soufflé Body Cream. Finally, self-tan - something like
Crème de la Mer's Gradual Tan - that would help things look
healthier. I locked the bathroom door and slapped it
everywhere.

Then back to the 'head stuff'. I met with Talitha Stevenson, a
psychotherapist who practises from Anamaya - a peaceful, holistic
practice in South Kensington. Talitha deals with (among other
things) body anxiety, from dysmorphia to eating disorders. We
sat in a small room, on curved pink chairs that looked oddly
womb-like, and embarked on a crash course in how to get naked. She
asked questions, like what nudity meant to me and what my own
experiences of it were as a child. Feeling uncomfortable in our own
skin is shaped by our individual experiences, she said. Perhaps our
upbringing is a factor - sometimes it's a single negative comment,
made years ago, that has lodged itself in our psyche. She let me
throw every last thought and anxiety about being naked that I had
at her, before sifting through the jumble, rearranging things and
assembling it into something that made sense. She didn't send me
off with words of wisdom, tips or trickery for instant
confidence. She didn't try and convince me that I was being silly
or irrational. She simply listened. I felt like she understood what
was going on inside my head. And it helped.

Suddenly it was the night of the summer solstice. What better time
to slough off my inhibitions than midsummer's eve? I recruited a
game friend and that evening we pitched up at the Kenwood Ladies'
Pond on Hampstead Heath. Wearing clothes. The idea was that we
would discard them once we got there, take in the view and go for a
paddle. I'd spent hours researching potential places where one
could legally attempt a naked swim in London. Nothing suggested it
was forbidden to do so here but I wasn't sure if we'd be
frogmarched out for trying.

As we picked our way through the undergrowth, I could hear
splashes and yelps. Clearly we weren't the only ones planning an
evening dip. Rounding the corner, we met a brigade of seasoned
swimmers, fully costumed, bustling about with plates of clingfilmed
quiche, like a flock of penguins in rubber hats. Drat. How would we
confront our nudity with this lot around? No doubt they'd be less
than thrilled with a Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe situation in the midst
of their waterside picnic. But it was now or never.

We picked a quiet spot. Bikini bottoms were dropped, tops untied
and left in a neat pile. Going nude on a beach in the Med is one
thing, but in a pond in Hampstead? It was FREEZING. Half of me
wanted nothing more than to disappear beneath the murky green
depths; the other half was squealing, pig-like, in protest as the
water crept up my calves. My now-former friend was telling me
repeatedly that she hated me. Amid the commotion, our nakedness was
forgotten. We were more concerned with manoeuvring into the icy
abyss than with our cellulite.

We were in. Floundering, up to our necks, feet slipping over
slick, moss-covered stones. We bobbed around for a bit, did some
half-hearted laps and clung to the lifebuoys like limpets as the
sun broke through the clouds. Ducks drifted past, the reeds rippled
in the breeze. There was a flurry of panic when a gaggle of geese
threatened to invade. But despite the sliminess, the squelchiness,
the unknown things that brushed against our bare bodies - it was
fantastic. Exhilarating, even. Swapping our normal Friday-night
antics for something as bonkers as naked swimming was just about
the most brilliant idea we'd had yet.

Getting out was another matter entirely. It was bound to be a wet,
wobbly, undignified exit. We heaved ourselves out, walked - slowly,
carefully - up the little wooden steps, scooped up our bikinis and
trotted nonchalantly over to the showers. Rushing spoils the
illusion that you're actually cool with the whole nudity
business. Which we weren't. But we'd done it.

My midsummer swim was the most liberating thing I've ever
experienced, the fear of being naked surpassed only by the thrill
of having gone through with it. Give it a go when you get a chance.
Let it all hang out and you'll realise that no one pays the
blindest bit of notice. (Our pond-fellows were certainly more
interested in their quiche.) Bring on the next solstice.